


What Art in Preservation

by Sovin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Fluff, Museums, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 13:17:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1819843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sovin/pseuds/Sovin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Considering that they all work in the same museum, one might think they'd see enough of one another. Combeferre is just grateful that they can even manage to coordinate a lunch break, today.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Art in Preservation

**Author's Note:**

> Standard disclaimer still applies.
> 
> Fluffy pointless museum!AU lunch break fic for soc_puppet. I just have a lot of feelings about museums and adorable boys who work there, and more museum fics are always necessary. (I have so many headcanons and ideas for this verse please send help. Or talk to me about them.)
> 
> Hit me up on [tumblr](http://www.sovinly.tumblr.com) tumblr! I always love to chat!

No matter how many years and how much practice Combeferre has had of cataloging objects for records and display, he has never gotten used to the niggling voice at the back of his head screaming about the value. Today is a neat little set of stacking vases, a design that was absolutely cutting edge when they were made, and he would be more excited about that except for the fact that the invoice has the prices listed and _there is several thousand dollars worth of artifact in his hand at the moment_ while he carefully measures the width of the piece.

Setting it down, he makes a note of the measurements, absently humming along to the music quietly playing through the office speakers. It’s been a quiet day, thus far, Musichetta having disappeared off into collections to check on some of their less displayed pieces, and none of the visitors have accidentally wandered away from the displays to poke their heads in with vaguely panicked (or worse, nosily curious) expressions.

Today, he’s left alone with his playlist and items until just after one, when there’s a knock at the door, which swings open. Grantaire slips inside, closing the door again – he’s never quite managed the art of casual business wear, sleeves more shoved than rolled up above his elbows and the first two buttons of his shirt lost again, probably fidgeted off while he was thinking, and slacks having ended up with a few smudges of dust and paint, his unruly hair already fighting free of his attempts to tame it. But he looks good all the same, or maybe just sweet, his eyes going soft and his mouth curling up in the breathless smile Combeferre will never tire of receiving.

“Hi,” he greets, sweeping an approving gaze over Combeferre (who, admittedly, has rolled his sleeves up so not to catch on anything, revealing just a hint of ink, but whose shirt and trousers are still immaculately pressed), since they missed one another this morning.

“Hello,” he replies, smiling up at Grantaire and setting the form he’s just finishing to the side. “Looking for some data in particular? Or need help hunting down a piece?”

And isn’t that a sign of how far they’ve come, that Combeferre can offer without Grantaire flinching a little with shame at having trouble tracking down artifacts by the small string of numbers and letters as he puts together the displays or pulls something out for one reason or another. Now, he just smiles.

“Nope, I’m good on that front,” he says, leaning against Musichetta’s desk. “I sweet talked Enjolras into picking up lunch for us on his way back – from the Indian place down the street? Do you have time to come up and join us? I know you didn’t have time to grab anything this morning, leaving in such a rush.”

“I would love to,” Combeferre tells him, setting down his pencil and pausing his music before standing, rolling stiffness out of his joints before leaning down to kiss Grantaire, who lets out a happy hum against his mouth. “Thank you.”

He scoffs affectionately and presses a kiss to the corner of Combeferre’s mouth, eyes so soft. “It’s selfish, really. Or I say that until Enjolras shows up to regale us with stories.”

“You like his stories,” he points out dryly, locking the door behind them and settling his hand in the small of Grantaire’s back as they take the hallways back toward the elevator. “Especially when he’s found something he likes enough to acquire.”

“So I do,” Grantaire sighs, leaning into Combeferre’s touch. “But then, so do you. We’re both completely lost, all head over heels for a dorky man who’s spent the morning charming and terrifying rich people and scummy art dealers into donating or selling us things they don’t want in their collections anymore. If only they knew what he looked like in the mornings.”

He huffs, because it’s true, and kisses Grantaire’s temple. “To be fair, he _is_ very good at getting us beautiful new pieces, and Courfeyrac sings his praises every month. Though, yes, it’s hard to take him seriously after seeing him blink at the coffeemaker like a fluffy, sleepy kitten.”

“He is very fluffy in the mornings and it is probably one of the most adorable things I have ever seen,” he agrees, sighing reluctantly when Combeferre’s hand drops away as they reach the more crowded areas, heading for the employee lunchroom. They fall quiet for the moment, not passing anyone but Cosette, who has an armful of folders but says hello cheerfully, walking in a comfortably quiet tandem.

The lunchroom, though, is quiet, too late for most of their friends and coworkers to be eating, and Grantaire drops down at the table, pulling over a stray newspaper as Combeferre sits beside him.

“Ooh, half-finished crossword puzzle,” he says, already penciling in an answer, angling it so Combeferre can see as well. “I was gonna ask, though, how’s the cataloging going?”

“Well, thank you.” He plucks the pencil from Grantaire’s fingers, filling in another slot after a moment of thought. “I’ve figured out the ones that lost their catalog numbers, and we owe Feuilly a million thanks for the computer database set up. It took much less time than picking through the accession cabinets. The search feature is a blessing. Working on a new display?”

He hums, shaking his head slightly. “Courfeyrac and I talked about it this morning, we’re going to leave them as is for a month or two, but we’ll switch out a few pieces in some of the current ones. He loves the tea pot that Enjolras brought in last week. The red one with the gold motif?”

“It’s a lovely one,” he says, thoughtful, letting Grantaire take back the pencil in favor of resting his hand briefly on the back of his neck. “What will you be up to, then?”

“Cleaning up a few of the paintings we have in storage. Poor things, they’re in need of it.” He clicks his tongue softly, the lines of his posture softening at the comfort of Combeferre’s touch. “And hey, it’s what I was hired for.”

“Originally,” Combeferre agrees dryly. “It’s not our fault that you’re a man of many talents.”

Grantaire looks like he’s going to protest, if only playfully, but the door swings open and Enjolras steps in. He’s dressed to impress, as always, the dark charcoal of his suit cutting clean, flattering lines and his golden curls neatly arrayed in a ponytail, setting a bag on the table before stripping out of his jacket.

“Neither of you will _believe_ what that asshole said about museum accessibility to the public-” he grumbles, only to be cut off.

“Food first,” Grantaire tells him, pulling the bag over and starting to dig through it, offering Combeferre a box and a fork.

He really is curious, because Combeferre has very _strong_ opinions about the availability and accessibility of museums to _everyone_ , and they’ve all worked to keep their museum as easy to visit as possible so that no one is denied the experience, but if Enjolras gets started now, he’ll forget to eat, so he takes the box from Grantaire, unsurprised to find his favorite.

Enjolras scowls, but it melts into a smile a second later as he studies them, leaning in to kiss first Combeferre, then Grantaire chastely but fiercely, blue eyes softening as he sits on Combeferre’s other side.

“Hello,” Enjolras says, kissing his jaw even as he lets Grantaire hand him his own lunch. “I missed you this morning.”

“Hello to you as well,” Combeferre says, trying not to sound too amused, but it’s impossible not to be soft and fond with them both. “I missed you, too. Other than terrible comments that, yes, you may rant about later, how was your morning?”

“It was good,” Enjolras allows, rolling up his sleeves before opening his own container. “There are a few paintings from an estate I think we may want, if we can get a good deal, and one of my contacts has her eye on an auction lot she thinks may be of interest to us. I’m tentatively pleased. And yours? Both of you?”

Grantaire answers, Combeferre just having taken a bite of his lunch. “Good. You know me, running around and getting into trouble and all of those good things. Combeferre says he’s relabeled all the pieces that lost their tags, so his day’s been pretty good too. One of these days, you guys are going to give me interns and I’ll make them help me and Musichetta iron out all of the weird labely things that got lost in shifting over to the computer catalog system and moving stuff around to swap out some of those bigger displays.”

Enjolras snorts softly and Combeferre, finishing his bite, sketches an imaginary note in the air. “Itinerary: Abandon helpless baby interns to the mercies of R and Musichetta, addendum: apologize to Bahorel for the ones inevitably lost in the archives, instruct him _not_ to let Jehan assemble the sympathy flowers for their families.”

That startles a laugh from Grantaire as Enjolras just shakes his head and smiles at them fondly. They continue to banter and chatter about their work, Enjolras complaining viciously about the man who’d argued museums should only be visited by those with the wealth to “appreciate” them, Grantaire easing both his irritated indignation and Combeferre’s with dry mockery before they move to lighter subjects. Surprisingly, it’s Grantaire who sighs first, rising and clearing the table.

“I have to bow out, I’m afraid. Bossuet’s volunteer flaked out and I’m supposed to help him with tiny children and art projects in an hour, but I need to talk to Éponine about a thing first,” he explains. “I should be done about six, though, and I’ll see you both at home tonight?”

“I can be finished at six,” Combeferre tells him, coaxing him down for a soft kiss. “Wait for me and we can head home together?”

“And I’ll be back with groceries before then,” Enjolras adds, catching Grantaire in for a kiss of his own when he moves around the table. “Good luck with the tiny adorable monsters.”

He laughs at that, eyes crinkling a little at the corners, waving as he heads out. “I’ll need it!”

“And I should probably head back down as well,” Combeferre says reluctantly, turning to kiss Enjolras as softly as the first time. “Thank you for lunch, and for joining us. I know you’re busy.”

“I know I’m bad about making time for you both, but I try, and I do love it when we get a chance to sit and eat and catch up like this.” Enjolras tucks a strand of hair back behind his ear, still comfortable and quiet enough for the moment to admit it. “You mean the world to me.”

And Combeferre knows, he does, but it’s still nice to hear him say it, nice enough that he kisses Enjolras again, even softer. “I know. We both do. But for now, I imagine you have an appointment to get to, and I have items to finish cataloging. Try to behave?”

“I’ll do my best,” he says with a dry spark of amusement. “And I’ll see you at home.”

They share another smile, and Combeferre glances back once more as he exits, still feeling the warm wash of contentment as he wends his way back down to collections, always still so amazed that his life is as wonderful as this, so grateful for everything he has.


End file.
